


Open To

by Sparkleymask



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 19:19:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7235254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparkleymask/pseuds/Sparkleymask
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: "Sick Dorian who becomes weepy/more emotional when sick".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open To

He could hear voices, hushed like they were nearby and didn’t want their words to carry, but somehow also sounding distant in the sluggish fog of his mind.

He couldn’t tell who was speaking, and couldn’t find the energy to open his eyes to look.

“…be fine.”

A woman. Familiar, but full recognition evaded his grasp.

“…to worry about…”

He huffed a shallow sigh and turned his head away, trying to find a more comfortable position on the thin pillow, the fabric unpleasantly clammy against his cheek.

He had been sleeping, he realised. He had finally managed to escape into sleep and they had woken him up, the bastards.

“…a reaction to…”

 _Bull_ , he thought, quite matter-of-fact, before the implications hit him. Oh _no_. He attempted to roll onto his side, putting his back to the opening of the tent, but was stopped by a sharp spasm of pain in his gut which seemed to reverberate throughout his entire body. He gave an involuntary, pitiful whine.

“Dorian?”

He kept his eyes closed. If he kept his eyes closed, they might leave.

The rustle of movement, oddly muffled, then a gentle touch to his temple. Not prodding fingers or, worse, the heavy weight of a palm – that had been the healer earlier, unbearable – but he flinched weakly from the contact regardless.

“Sorry, big guy.”

Dorian felt something like embarrassment begin to coil in the pit of stomach. He had been lying in this same spot, tossing and turning in his own feverish sweat, for he didn’t know how long. He knew he looked terrible. He could feel the sticky strands of hair tickling his forehead, the kohl crusted under his eyes. He hadn’t even had a chance to clean away the dirt from their most recent excursion before falling ill.

It wasn’t the unattractiveness that bothered him so much as the vulnerability. He wasn’t ready for anyone to see that.

Another jolt of pain, this time just below his ribs, pushed a weak whimper from him, his whole body tensing. The blanket pulled tighter across his legs, indicating that Bull had leaned his weight on it.

“Hey, you’re alright.”

“I am not,” Dorian managed, finally opening his eyes, “anything close to alright.”

He blinked his vision into focus. Bull was crouched beside him, slightly awkwardly, one hand propped on his knee for balance, the other resting on the blanket near Dorian’s hip. Close, but not touching.

Bull chuckled, conceding Dorian’s point. His expression was soft in a way one might not have thought possible on a face like his. If one didn’t know him, Dorian thought.

“You will be, though.”

Dorian responded with an unconvinced grunt.

“A day or so, you’ll be back on your feet.” He turned away, and it was only then that Dorian realised someone else had entered the tent – a young woman, the healer, with the familiar voice and heavy hands. “Right?”

“It will pass,” she agreed. “All we can do is treat the symptoms, and wait.” She was carrying a deep bowl, which she handed to Bull before leaving them alone in the tent.

Bull placed the bowl carefully on the ground, out of Dorian’s line of sight.

“What is it, then?” said Dorian. His voice came out weak and weary, and he cursed inwardly.

“Just water, Dorian.”

“No…” He closed his eyes again, the effort required to both keep them open and form coherent sentences too great. “What’s the matter with me.”

The water sloshed quietly in the bowl. Dorian imagined he could hear Bull’s frown when he spoke. “They didn’t tell you?”

“I don’t recall.” Everything between stumbling into the tent feeling unwell and being woken a few moments ago was, frankly, a bit of a blur.

“They think you brushed against something in the forest. Got a mild toxin into your bloodstream through an open cut, now you’re having a bad reaction to it.” The sound of Bull shifting his weight. The splash of water, sharp, almost musical. “Look at me.”

Dorian reluctantly obeyed. Bull was holding up a small piece of wet, folded cloth for him to see.

“I’m just going to put this on your forehead. Cool you down.”

Instinctively his mind began to form a protest, some barb about how he didn’t need to be mollycoddled despite how spoiled Bull thought he was, but it was soon abandoned under the weight of his exhaustion. He tipped his head a fraction, the smallest possible nod.

The cloth was cool, relief that ran in a shiver down his body. His vision swam a little, even behind his closed eyes. A trickle of water slid down his temple, irritating, before Bull wiped it away with a finger. Dorian wrestled with his fractured thoughts. “Why are you doing this?” he murmured.

“Because you’re hot.”

Dorian half opened his eyes. His vision was unfocused, but he could still make out Bull’s smirk. “That aside,” he said, as dryly as he could manage.

Bull didn’t say anything right away. He had taken hold of the cloth, wiping it with careful firmness down the sides of his face, along his hairline where his sweat had dried salty, then down the line of his nose and, finally, gently over each eye.

Cleaning the grime from his face, Dorian realised belatedly. He was torn between acute embarrassment and some other emotion, one that made his throat tighten.

Bull removed the cloth, rinsing it in the bowl. “Because I…”

Dorian tried to read his expression, watching him in the moments he could force his eyes open between a series of long, slow blinks.

Bull had his attention on the bowl. A thoughtful pause before continuing. “Because I care about you.”

Dorian wasn’t sure what he had expected the answer to be, but it wasn’t that. Bull had kept his voice even, neutral, but it still felt like a confession. Dorian’s throat tightened again, suddenly feeling exposed, as if the confession were his and not Bull’s.

Bull turned back to him, pressing the cloth to the side of Dorian’s neck this time. Dorian swallowed thickly. The silence felt heavy, and he was compelled to break it. “Imagine,” he said, “managing to survive countless demons, only to be brought down by plantlife.”

Bull slid the cloth down to the ridge of his collarbone. “There’s no shame in it.”

 _I know that_ , Dorian wanted to snap. But he didn’t trust himself, in his current state, to sound convincing. “I don’t need you to patronise me,” he said, as a compromise.

This was why he should hate Bull, logically. This ability to identify his weak spots and announce them as if they were nothing. He could be worse than Cole for that.

A pulse of pain shooting along his side broke his chain of thought. His eyes squeezed shut, his teeth gritted, and when it passed he could hear the erratic flutter of his pulse in his ears.

He was also clasping Bull’s fingers tightly. He was unsure when that had happened. He relaxed his grip, but Bull didn’t take his hand away, keeping his thumb pressed lightly into Dorian’s palm.

Dorian tried to concentrate on slowing his breathing, staring up at the roof of the tent, the warm, dim light filtering through the canvas.

“One time,” said Bull, “I was on my way back from a mission, had to go through this patch of jungle with no path. Don’t know what it was I got on me, but a half hour later I was on my knees. Barely had time to crawl to shelter before passing out.”

Dorian kept his gaze on the canvas. Bull’s thumb stroked a tiny, rhythmic pattern against his palm. “You were alone?”

“This was before I had the Chargers.”

If Dorian had been at his best he hoped he would have realised when Bull was talking about without having to ask. Jungle. ‘Mission’, not ‘job’.

“Not sure how long I was there. Maybe a day.” He shifted again, seating himself more comfortably on the ground without letting go of Dorian’s hand. “It passed, I got back on my feet.”

Dorian looked at him then. He supposed the story had been meant to reassure him, but instead he found himself filled with a sudden, wholly unexpected sadness. He pictured Bull, sick, disoriented, stuck in the centre of a Maker-forsaken war zone, and alone. Entirely alone.

He was both surprised and mortified to find himself on the verge of tears. He swallowed round the lump in his throat, blinked back the telltale prickle behind his eyes, and hoped desperately that Bull hadn’t noticed. “Was that supposed to make me feel better?”

Bull’s mouth twitched in a half-hearted smile. “It didn’t work, then.”

“Of course not, you oaf.” The mild insult was rendered milder by the way he tightened his grip on Bull’s fingers. “Why would I be comforted by the thought of you…” In pain. In danger. “…the thought of you in that situation?”

Bull shrugged. “So you know that it happens. And it’s better that it happens like this.”

 _With someone to take care of you_. Bull didn’t need to say it for Dorian to hear it. Damn him, damn him.

“Think you can rest?”

“No.”

The way Bull looked at him then, a kind of amused affection, made Dorian’s chest hurt.

He turned his head to the side, away from Bull, and let his mind drift behind closed eyes.

Bull’s hand pushed the hair back from his forehead with one slow stroke, resting on the back of his head – and Dorian remembered a fever, twelve years old and confined to his bed, his mother stroking the hair out of his face, her palm warm and dry on his cheek.

“Dorian…” Bull’s voice was low, but Dorian could hear the concern running through it.

He felt a wet track over the bridge of his nose, a tear he hadn’t noticed escaping. He held back a sob until his throat ached with it.

“I can leave,” said Bull.

“No.” It came out tight and uneven. He reached up, fumbling weakly until he found Bull’s wrist. Pain and tiredness and dizzy sickness had washed away his barriers and he was exposed, raw.

With effort he turned himself towards Bull, his face ending up pressed in a rather undignified manner against Bull’s thigh, but he couldn’t find it in him to move away. “I don’t want to be…”

“You’re not, Dorian.” Bull clasped his hand firmly.

Tomorrow, Dorian could regret this. For now, he let himself be held.


End file.
